


Our Hell

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Dark, Ficlet, M/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gillies plays with George.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Hell

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Heads, this isn't historically accurate.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

George hears the water rush through the pipes and knows that Gillies’ done: will be back soon. George’s fingers curl up into his palms, the tips of his nails grazing the rope. He doesn’t quite pull. He knows it would be futile. James Gillies knows how to tie ropes as well as he knows how to set up a camera, and George’s eyes finally drift from the blank lens to the door, left partway ajar. 

He hears footsteps coming up the old stairs: a generic, nondescript house he likely won’t be able to track Gillies by when— _if_ —he’s released. He isn’t Detective Murdoch, and he can’t decipher some small, random noise from behind the closed, curtained off window or a specific, lingering scent in the air by which to pinpoint his location. But then, Murdoch would never be caught like this— _nor offer_ —in the first place.

Just people close to Murdoch, and when Gillies steps through the doorway, he _smiles_. The dim light plays over his unshaven face and makes George slightly sick; he can _see_ the insanity. He licks his lips in a nervous habit and forces himself to look away, but that only brings him back to the camera and the blur of a dusty mirror behind it. 

He’s tied to a chair in Gillies’ clutches, and if past experience is anything to go by, that isn’t certain death. Murdoch will receive postcards first. Pictures, letters, taunts. Maybe he’ll come busting through the front door to George’s rescue, like he always would for Doctor Ogden.

Maybe, maybe not. Gillies walks slowly over, feet still in shoes: always ready to run. George is in his full uniform, though his hat’s been lost somewhere in the scuffle. That gives him wider peripherals, and from the corner of his eye, he can see the glint in Gillies’. Gillies strolls around the back of the chair, hands curling around the plain, wooden backrest. George moves imperceptibly forward, as much as the ropes will allow, delaying touch 

Even though it’s the two of them, all alone in the room, maybe the house, maybe the whole middle-of-nowhere, Gillies still leans down when he talks, still puts his voice in a whisper. It makes George more unsettled, makes him shiver when Gillies’ breath ghosts over his ear. “You haven’t tried screaming yet, Constable. ...I’m disappointed in you.”

George grits his teeth and forces out the same deductive reasoning he told himself: “If we were close enough for anyone to hear, you would’ve gagged me.” 

Gillies chuckles. For a second, George thinks he’s going to straighten out and clap. Gillies is always entirely too _amused_ with his crimes, and that’s part of what makes them so disturbing. Gillies’ fingers leave the wood, sliding forward onto George’s shoulders, and George doesn’t have the space to pull away. He stiffens instead, tense and drawing all his bonds taut, right down to the knots securing his spread thighs and angled ankles to the chair legs. When George glances sideways, he notes that, unlike when George was first taken, Gillies isn’t wearing gloves. 

Always observant, Gillies announces, “I didn’t see any reason to leave the gloves on. After all, Constable, I intend to leave my fingerprints _all over_ you.” Like demonstrating, his right hand slips above George’s collar to graze beneath George’s jaw, and George turns away as though burned. 

Gillies simply chuckles again and lowers his head to the side of George’s. Then, to George’s surprise, he presses his closed lips into George’s cheek, and George sucks in a breath, unable to move. He knew Gillies was sick. Knew things would happen. But somehow, he didn’t think... he never quite expected to be _kissed_.

Gillies’ hand lifts to stroke George’s cheek on one side, chin close enough that George can feel Gillies’ stubble prickling his skin. Gillies’ fingers spread and splay across George’s shoulder, slowly ghosting down his chest, pressing in the dark fabric of his uniform. Gillies’ voice drops low, husky, and it purrs, “You’re going to be a good boy for me, aren’t you, Constable?” His smile only grins when he adds, no less sing-song than before, “Because if you don’t, there won’t be enough of you left to dust for fingerprints.”

George winces at an abrupt rush of memories—bodies found in too many pieces to put together. He didn’t think Gillies was quite like that, somehow; he seems too immersed in taunting the living to bother carrying on with the dead. But George knows better than to put anything past a murder, and he swallows, survival instinct coming in. He nods. 

The hand on George’s face curls suddenly in, nails threatening to tear George’s skin open, squeezing like claws. George grunts and recognizes the threat for what it is. Gillies’ voice is on edge when he hisses, “I expect you to answer me when I speak to you.”

So George says, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” Gillies muses, now halfway between laughing and warning.

George’s jaw tightens, but he manages to mutter, “Yes, I’ll _behave._ ”

“Sir.”

Confused, George looks over his shoulder. “What?” Gillies simply smiles at him, oddly pleasant. If George didn’t _know_ that Gillies was a serial killer, he might never infer it from Gillies’ young features. 

Gillies’ fingers uncurl, and for a moment, they stroke George’s cheek almost fondly. “I think I’ll have you call me ‘sir.’ That is what you call the good detective, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want to think I’m getting less respect than him.” When George doesn’t say anything, Gillies pushes, “Well? From the top, then.”

And George, in the interest of seeing said detective again, recites in an air of bitterness, “Yes, I’ll behave, _Sir._ ”

Gillies grins wide enough to crinkle his eyes, and he pets George’s face and murmurs, “I know you will, Georgie.” Then he presses another kiss into George’s temple, as sickeningly intimate as the unearned nickname. When Gillies actually nips at George’s skin, George doesn’t take it for a love-bite; he has a horrible, split second of panic in thinking Gillies will really eat him alive. Being kissed by a man, especially one with stubble, feels very... strange. No matter how _shamefully curious_ he might’ve been. Gillies runs his dull teeth along the ridge of George’s eyebrow, ducking down to George’s ear, where he hooks into the lobe and tugs, leaving George to scrunch his eyes closed. Gillies’ tongue swiping along the shell of his ear inspires feelings he didn’t prepare for. George might be breathing too hard. He tells himself to be calm. 

Gillies’ hands fall back to George’s shoulder, smoothing them down, then joining over the front of George’s throat, and he’s sure he’ll be strangled. Gillies’ long fingers seal around him, crushing his adam’s apple and pulling his head back; George makes a choked sound and fights the urge to scream. It’d be a waste of precious air. Gillies tightens his grip. George nearly whimpers. 

Gillies lets go a second later, and George splutters. He’s aware that strangulation isn’t in Gillies’ modus operandi, but he still feels horribly _vulnerable._ Gillies finds the top button of George’s collar instead and slips it through the hole. He peels back fabric, leaning forward to whisper in George’s ear, “Look at the camera.”

George does. There’s no one behind it, but it still makes him feel cold. He’s seen too many still cadavers in photographs on Murdoch’s desk for him not to. Gillies smoothes back George’s open collar, one hand gliding down to the next button and the other playing along the hem of George’s white undershirt. Behind the camera, on the far wall, the large mirror’s half-hidden by a curtain. It’s dusty and unkempt like the rest of the house, but George can still make out his own blurry reflection when he concentrates through the darkness. He can’t see any of Gillies’ distinct features, can’t pinpoint emotion, but he can see the general movement of Gillies’ hands stripping away his uniform, playing over his body. George feels like he should say something, anything—stall and give the station house, give _Murdoch_ , more time to notice he’s gone, to come and find and rescue him. But he doesn’t know _what_ he’d say. 

Gillies only undoes four buttons, but it’s one past what George is used to and leaves him feeling painfully naked. His undershirt is translucent near the top, having clung to him with a thin sheen of sweat, half from being left in a musky, humid room, and half from his own nerves. Maybe a bit from the struggle that landed him here. It’s been a rough day. Evidently, he doesn’t look roughed up enough for the camera. 

Gillies’ fingers still slip into the sides of his uniform still covering his body, in between shirt and jacket. Every little touch makes George shiver, makes him feel more and more... _dirty._ Not entirely bad, and worse because of that. There’s nothing innocent in the way Gillies strokes him, even if there’s still a layer of clothing between Gillies’ hands and George’s naked flesh. Gillies’ palms dig into him and trace his sides, then slide back up his chest, lingering over his pecs, lifting with each deep breath. George tries to take comfort in the fact that Gillies can’t remove much more without untying him. But then, there’s an old bottle and towel on the desk in the corner, reminding him that he can be easily rendered unconscious at any time. More ways in which he’s vulnerable. Gillies’s hands moves back to George’s chest and stay there. 

Gillies nuzzles into George’s cheek, like a dog greeting an owner, and George winces and looks away. He’s pecked on the cheek again, nipped at, and Gillies’ fingers claw into his chest—George prays they won’t leave fingermarks. George has no delusions about escaping unscathed, but he’s still hoping the bruises won’t be noticeable. Gillies asks in a voice so wanton that it’s practically a moan, “Well, Constable... do you think you look ruffled up enough for the camera?” There’s a tangy flavour in the air where Gillis is pressed against him—the smell of old cologne? George tries to memorize the scent, but knows he’ll never place it. 

George mumbles numbly, “Yes, Sir,” and feels vaguely like a traitor for giving that title to someone who doesn’t deserve it. It earns him an affectionate kiss. 

There’s a sigh of relief when Gillies lets go of him. Gillies straightens out, and Gillies walks calmly around the chair, out to George’s front. 

He backhands George, _hard_ , and George, not expecting it, feels the sharp impact run straight down to his neck. His face snaps aside, cheek burning, and his arms instinctively test the bonds, wanting to defend himself. Gillies grabs his chin and pulls him straight again, face all lit up: clearly having fun. Gillies threads his long fingers into George’s hair, and George scrunches up his face in irritation as his hair’s ruffled and tossed and tugged. When Gillies is done, George stares down at the floor. 

Gillies ducks in so fast that George doesn’t have time to turn away, and Gillies’ tongue draws a warm, crude line right up the side of George’s face, pressing in hard. It leaves a slick trail behind. Gillies licks back down to his jaw and bites into his chin; George grits his teeth and tries not to react, but Gillies digs in, and it hurts. George makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a whimper, and Gillies lets him go. George is sure there’re tooth marks on his face. Tooth marks, a handprint, saliva, and rumpled hair. When Gillies pulls away, George braces himself to be hit again. 

Instead, Gillies turns and walks for the camera. It’s a big thing, standing on a tripod, and George can’t help but think that Murdoch could have—or make—a better one. More compact, less bulky. When Gillies lifts the flash, he tells George, “Smile.”

George is too ashamed to even frown, so he just looks away, grateful that the picture won’t be able to show how red his face is. The flash goes off, the machine clicks, and a little piece of George’s soul is caught in irreparable evidence. Gillies laughs and muses, “You’re a good model, Georgie. I’m sure our Detective Murdoch will be most pleased to come into possession of these.” George scrunches his nose and tries not to think about it. 

He knows Gillies will send the pictures to Murdoch. It’s not much different than what he did with Doctor Ogden; George is well aware that he’s just a tool to taunt his superior officer. He also knows that Murdoch won’t show anyone else the photographs—except, perhaps, the Inspector, if necessary—and for that, he is grateful. No matter what transpires here, in this room, no one will hold him accountable for his shame. 

Other than himself, of course. He doesn’t need pictures to show himself how debauched he is. Gillies takes a series of pictures, all without George looking or paying much interest, other than subtle winces when the flashes blind him. He wonders vaguely if Gillies’ spit will make his cheek glisten; if Murdoch will see and somehow know that he’s been... _fondled._

Then he wonders if it’ll make him less valuable. Less worth saving. Not to Murdoch, he tells himself. _Murdoch won’t judge him_. And no one else will know. Neither these actions nor the truth underneath.

Gillies leaves the camera where it is and abruptly leaves the room. By the time George looks around to the movement, Gillis is disappearing, loose cotton shirt and plain pants turning around the corner. His feet click down the steps again, and George is left alone, feeling, against all logic, even more uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to be left alone. He’s starting to get thirsty. He’ll be hungry soon. What if he has to go to the washroom? He tugs at the ropes around his wrists and gets nowhere. Once the footsteps come back, he lets out a sigh of relief, then instantly scolds himself: James Gillies’ approach is never a good thing. 

Gillies reappears in the doorway, silhouetted by the light of the hall. A kitchen knife is in his hands, and George has a sharp intake of breath. He knew this would happen, but it still makes his blood run cold. Gillies comes towards him, arms swinging casually, not the least bit dangerous. 

Gillies doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of George, close enough that their legs are touching up to the knees, where George’s bend over the chair. Gillies bends a fraction, and George holds his breath, not daring to move. Gillies skillfully slices each remaining button off George’s uniform, the thread snapping and the shining fastenings tumbling down to his lap, some rolling past and onto the floor. At George’s belt, Gillies uses his other hand to loop a finger inside, pulling it away from George’s stomach. It would be just as easy to undo manually, but Gillies seems to take pleasure in sawing away at the worn leather. He’s careful, slow, teetering back and forth the growing incision, and George is painfully aware of where the knife will go if Gillies’ hand slips, or if too much pressure is applied, if the blade cuts right through the leather and down to George’s skin. At least Gillies is looking at what he’s doing, concentrating, and he asks in a too-light tone, “Are you ready, Constable? You know that if we really want to get the good detective’s interest, we’ll have to send him pictures that are a little more... _scandalous_.” George licks his lip; he knows. They discussed as much. “We need to put you in a _very_ compromising position if we want him to come running. Or rather, see if he does. If he cares about you as much as he cares for his dear _Julia._ ” There’s an ugly twist in Gillies’ voice over the name, and George’s stomach is in knots. 

He _knows_ he’ll never be more important than Doctor Ogden. _He knows that._ But... there are so many ways in which Murdoch can’t have her, and George... maybe if Murdoch was really worried, if he were to look at George differently...

Even though he’s done so much worse, thought it out so much farther, George feels terrible for thinking of it. He tells himself it’ll help Murdoch catch Gillies too, but it sounds like an excuse. Gillies turns the knife when he gets to the end of the belt, and it snaps open, the blade safely clear of George’s body. Gillies tosses the belt away, but George doesn’t feel any freer to breathe. _He doesn’t know if he can trust Gillies, no matter their discussions._ One of Gillies’ feet lands on the chair, in between George’s spread thighs, the toe of the shoe nudging George’s crotch. It lets Gillies maneuver closer, so close, leaning in so that their noses brush. Gillies tells him, voice sickeningly sweet and almost sympathetic, “I’m sorry, Constable, but your precious detective won’t be kicking in the door to save you just yet.” George tries to look disgruntled, like he hasn’t been longing for exactly that. 

Gillies holds the tip of the knife to George’s collarbone, not far enough to break skin. It weighs down instead on the neck hole of George’s undershirt, threatening to tear. Like it isn’t obvious, Gillies purrs, “Now comes the fun part, where I cut off all your clothes, use you how I like, and give Murdoch the real incentive to find me.” George shuts his eyes and waits for it to start.

It doesn’t.

He opens them again and looks into Gillies bright eyes. They don’t look... quite as _insane_ as George thinks they should. As he used to think they did. Maybe they’ve softened. Gillies turns the knife, still not cutting, and asks, “Having second thoughts?”

For some bizarre, probably misguided reason, George gets the impression that Gillies would actually stop if George said to. George opens his mouth to respond, thinks of how it would feel to have _Detective William Murdoch_ rushing in to save him, scooping him up and promising him safety, and feels so incredibly _ashamed_. Somehow his lips form the word, “No.”

Gillies smiles. 

Gillies twists to press a chaste, almost sweet kiss to George’s lips. George doesn’t move and tries not to feel. But he shivers when Gillies thumbs his cheek afterwards and whispers to him, “You’re a good boy, George Crabtree. ...If Murdoch doesn’t miss and care about you, he’s a fool.” It’s followed by another kiss. 

The knife starts to slice away at George’s shirt, and he wonders for the million time why he did this. Said yes. Offered himself up to be the bait and never told Murdoch or the Inspector or anyone that could actually follow his trail in time to find him, find the murderer cutting the clothes away from George’s body. Gillies hasn’t done a single thing that George didn’t willingly surrender to. He went too far. 

He whispers belatedly, “Thank you, Sir.” He closes his eyes to pretend. This might be the closest he ever comes to what he really wants, and until he meets the devil at his death, this will have to do.


End file.
